153: Chapter 153 The Pit Worth 1.8 Billion US Dollars
Fu Haoran hung up the call from Olov, but he didn't put his phone down immediately.
He stared at the call record on the screen for three seconds.
"Jarvis."
"I am here, sir."
"Check Olov's call records for the past week. See who he's been talking to."
Jarvis's reply was swift: "Sir, Mr. Olov's communication data is protected by the America military and cannot be accessed directly."
"However, based on public flight records and business social platform itinerary overlap analysis, he had a meeting three days ago with the head of Lockheed Martin's military aviation division in Tucson, Arizona."
"Anything else?"
"That same evening, his private cell phone had a communication with an encrypted number from the Pentagon, lasting four minutes and twelve seconds. The owner of the encrypted number cannot be confirmed."
Fu Haoran's finger tapped once on the tabletop.
The Pentagon.
He put his phone down and didn't ask further.
1.8 billion US dollars for a complete, mothballed F-22 Raptor fighter jet assembly line, plus supporting processing equipment and some tooling blueprints, with a free Air Force bidding qualification thrown in.
Fu Haoran felt this was a pretty good deal.
That was currently the only heavy fifth-generation stealth fighter production line on Blue Star that had formed a complete combat capability.
1.8 billion dollars looked expensive, but compared to Lockheed Martin's original R&D and manufacturing costs for the entire line—which exceeded ten billion—it was a bargain price.
After all, in the eyes of the Americas, this was just a pile of scrap metal that had been sealed away for four years. Being able to sell it for 1.8 billion was a massive profit.
Of course, there were additional conditions.
For example, if the production line were to be resold, it would require approval from Congress.
The production line could not leave America soil.
...
Fu Haoran didn't dwell on this matter for too long.
"Whether it's a trap or not, get the stuff first and talk later."
"The production line is static, but how it's used is dynamic. Even if someone dug a pit, I have to find where it is before I can walk around it."
So, Fu Haoran sent for Father Kallun.
"My Lord."
"Father Kallun, how is the progress over at Schadenhold?"
"The main structure of the outer wall is seventy-three percent complete. The artillery foundations have been poured, and the hoisting of the cannon bodies will take two weeks."
Father Kallun paused.
"Additionally, the first batch of materials you purchased has arrived. Four hundred motorcycle engines, two thousand seamless steel pipes, one gas cylinder production line, and three hundred tons of supporting raw materials. The quantities far exceed the actual needs for the fortress construction."
"My Lord, how should the surplus materials be handled?"
Fu Haoran was momentarily stumped by the question.
When he bought these things, he just wanted to get the Hive City's industrial system running first.
Motorcycle engines for the guerrillas to improve mobility, seamless steel pipes for the mining area as water pipes, gas cylinders to solve fuel storage issues... they were all for civilian use.
The only problem was that Fu Haoran felt they were so cheap that he accidentally bought too many.
Since the money had already been spent, it would be a shame to let them sit idle.
With a mindset of making use of waste, Fu Haoran took out his phone, flipped through it briefly, and handed it to Father Kallun: "I found some data randomly online. See if you can make do with it."
Father Kallun opened the attachment, his bionic eyes scanning the blueprints.
In the next second, his processor crashed directly.
The blueprints showed seamless steel pipes modified into rockets, gas cylinders modified into mortar shells, and pressure cookers modified into anti-personnel mines.
This was no different from the behavior of those green-skinned Orks piecing together junk!
How could I, a dignified Tech-Priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus, fall so low as to do such disgraceful work?
If this ever gets out, how will I continue to stay in the Cult Mechanicus?
Father Kallun's first reaction was to sternly refuse, but just as he was about to speak, he suddenly stopped.
He stared at the blueprints for a few seconds, and a long-buried memory was unlocked.
This idea of using gas cylinders as warheads actually coincided perfectly with the underlying logic he used for designing siege grenades back when he was still a Cogboy.
Could this be the guidance of the Omnissiah?
In the end, Father Kallun made a decision that violated the precepts of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
"Very well, I will arrange it."
In the span of a few words, Father Kallun forged the identity of a low-level apprentice named 'Cogboy Kamm' and attributed all the modification designs to this virtual character.
Father Kallun repeatedly chanted in his mind: Even if I'm discovered by colleagues in the future, I can claim it was the apprentice messing around. It has nothing to do with me, Father Kallun!
"The Omnissiah as my witness, I have no knowledge of this!"
"You ask where that Cogboy Kamm went? Oh, I've already thrown him into the incinerator for humanitarian destruction. Every second such a heretic lives is a desecration to the machine spirit!"
"This was the Cogboy's idea; it has not a single gear's worth of relation to me, Kallun!"
...
A few days later, a convoy of military vehicles drove into the DYB factory.
Fu Haoran had already cleared out a specialized workshop for this production line.
As the convoy unloaded, the equipment was hoisted into place one by one.
After the workers finished unloading, they patted their backsides and got on the trucks to leave.
Fu Haoran stopped the officer leading the team: "Where are the engineers? Where are the people for installation and debugging?"
The officer shrugged: "We're only responsible for transport. We don't know anything else."
Fu Haoran dialed Olov's number.
"Brother, I'm only responsible for the sale, not the after-sales service," Olov's voice sounded righteous. "Otherwise, did you think 1.8 billion dollars could buy an F-22 production line? The severance pay for the engineers alone would be more than that."
1.8 billion dollars and you just give me a pile of equipment with no one to teach me and no one to debug it?
Fu Haoran suppressed his anger and asked: "Where are the original engineers?"
"Who knows? They're either in pubs or being bums on the streets. You know the production line has been shut down for four years. Those who should be laid off were laid off, and those who should retire have retired." Olov laughed. "Mr. Fu, I wish you luck."
"Are you playing me, Olov? Or do you think your life is worth only a few bucks?"
Hearing the murderous intent in Fu Haoran's voice, Olov was instantly frightened.
He was a racist, not an idiot.
If he really offended the man, he couldn't guarantee the other party wouldn't spend a little money to find a junkie, give them a black-market gun, and empty a magazine into him.
This kind of basic operation was all too common in America.
"Forget it, forget it. I'm just working for others anyway; no need to get myself killed."
Olov chuckled and said: "Fu, don't get excited. Calm down, calm down."
"I have the contact information for those engineers here. How many you can reach depends on your luck."
"Besides, I'm just an errand boy. I can't make the final call on these things."
Fu Haoran caught Olov's implication—there was someone operating behind the scenes on this matter.
The call ended.
"It seems you've been played?" Lucifelle asked, knowing the answer.
"Do you need my help with this little trouble?"
Lucifelle rarely offered a helping hand.
However, Fu Haoran refused without a second thought.
"No need." Fu Haoran looked up, his tone cold and hard. "I want to show the Americas that even if they block the road, I can pave my own way through."
Lucifelle arched an eyebrow and said no more. She could never understand why this carbon-based lifeform would act on impulse, insisting on a head-on collision when there was a shortcut available.
However, from Fu Haoran's perspective, he had spent 1.8 billion on a pile of iron that couldn't be returned.
This was an attempt to screw him over completely; the grudge was now settled.
"Jimmy."
"Boss."
"Go to Tucson, Arizona, and fish out the engineers who were responsible for this production line at Lockheed Martin back then."
"The retired ones, the laid-off ones, the ones wandering the streets—as long as they're still breathing, bring them all back to me."
This wasn't the first time Jimmy had done this kind of work, so he nodded and left immediately.
As a second-rate lawyer, he knew many people from all walks of life, and they were all 'talents' in their own right.
Jimmy took his men and turned the bars, motels, and homeless shelters of Tucson upside down.
After a week, he had only fished back thirty-odd retired engineers—not even a fifth of the original engineering team.
The rest had either been rehired by Lockheed Martin, passed away in poverty, or were among those who couldn't be contacted, likely drinking themselves into a stupor in some pub.
A complete F-22 assembly line required a core engineering team of about one hundred fifty to two hundred people, plus skilled technical workers, totaling six to seven hundred people.
The thirty-odd retired engineers Jimmy fished back, plus the skilled workers scattered around, amounted to less than eighty people at most.
Fu Haoran fell silent after hearing the report.
He was now very certain that he had been royally screwed.
It wasn't a coincidence.
Someone had bet on the fact that he wouldn't be able to find the engineers before letting him take over this production line.
A private club in Tucson, Arizona.
Olov held a glass of whiskey and clinked it with the Pentagon official opposite him.
"That fool really bought it?"
"1.8 billion, not a penny less."
Sitting nearby was another person—Harris, the former Asia-Pacific President of Rio Tinto Australia.
He had been utterly defeated by Fu Haoran on the iron ore battlefield, lost his position, and after some maneuvering, leveraged his connections with Lockheed Martin to become the middleman for this deal.
"That production line has been shut down for four years. The engineers were either laid off or rehired elsewhere," Harris sneered. "Even if he has money, he won't find anyone. It's just a pile of scrap metal rotting in a warehouse; eventually, he'll have to sell it off at a low price."
"Even if he wants to sell, no one in America will take it. Everyone is working on the F-35; who wants the outdated F-22?"
"If he tries to sell it abroad, he'll never get past Congress. In the end, he'll be stuck with it."
Harris held his wine glass, his eyes venomous. "He destroyed my livelihood; today, I'm going to make sure his 1.8 billion dollars goes down the drain."
"Once he's stuck with that production line, I'll get back everything I lost in the iron ore market, with interest."
The men looked at each other and smiled.
What they didn't know was that Fu Haoran was completely enraged.
As the saying goes, the more you endure, the angrier you get; the more you step back, the more you feel you're losing out.
"No one in America? Then I'll poach them from back home."
Fu Haoran called Jimmy over and gave him a strict order.
"Contact all the aviation manufacturing companies back home—Shenyang Aircraft, Chengdu Aircraft, Xi'an Aircraft—anyone with experience as an aviation engineer, poach them all for me."
"What terms should I offer?" Jimmy asked.
"Offer high salaries. Whatever Americas are getting paid, we'll match it."
"If they want a green card, give them a green card. If they don't, that's fine too. We'll charter flights for them to visit family every year, or they can even work from home and provide remote support."
"If they want a green card, give them a green card. If they don't, that's fine too. We'll charter flights for them to visit family every year, or they can even work from home and provide remote support."
Fu Haoran paused and gave a cold laugh.
"I don't believe it. With the entire F-22 production line in my hands, why can't I turn the global light fighter market upside down? They want to see me fail, so I'll damn well build it just to show them."
Jimmy took his orders and left.
Shenyang Aircraft Corporation, Structural Design Office.
Li Jianguo's workstation was in the furthest corner of the office.
Forty-seven years old, a PhD from a top-tier university, he had worked in aviation for twenty years. The aerodynamic optimization project he led for a certain fighter jet had won a National Science and Technology Progress Award. But when it came to title evaluations, the quotas never seemed to reach him.
This time was even more egregious.
A young man a full ten years his junior had snatched away the Associate Senior Engineer position that should have been his.
In the meeting room, when the supervisor announced the list, Li Jianguo couldn't believe his ears.
He stood up, his voice not loud but carrying an uncontrollable rage: "President Zhang, I've worked for twenty years and won a National Science and Technology Progress Award. Why can't I even get an Associate Senior title? He's only been here for eight years, on what basis?"
The supervisor patted his shoulder. "Old Li, management roles aren't just about technical skills; they're about the big picture. You'll have another chance, just wait a bit longer."
"I'm almost fifty!" Li Jianguo's voice rose. "When will it be my turn? When I retire?"
The smile on the supervisor's face stiffened.
Everyone in the meeting room kept their heads down; no one dared to speak.
Li Jianguo wanted to say more, but the person next to him tugged at his sleeve.
He took a deep breath and stormed out, slamming the door.
His take-home pay was just over ten thousand yuan.
His elderly mother needed dialysis for uremia, which cost several thousand a month; his child was entering a key middle school and needed school selection fees; and his wife argued with him every day:
"You're a PhD, yet you're not even half as good as my best friend's husband. He runs a factory and makes a million a year!"
Today, he had been labeled as "too aggressive" by his supervisor, and then his promotion was stolen.
Li Jianguo sat at his desk, staring at the computer screen, his eyes stinging.
The phone rang.
"Is this Mr. Li Jianguo? I'm a headhunter. I'd like to invite you to join Warhammer Heavy Industries Technology in America. The monthly salary is 50,000 USD, which is over three million RMB per year to start..."
Before the person on the other end could finish, Li Jianguo hung up.
"Are scammers so lazy nowadays? Offering a million-dollar salary right off the bat. And what is this Warhammer company? I've never even heard of it."
...
The next day, the headhunter called again.
"Mr. Li, I'm the headhunter from yesterday. Please don't hang up; we aren't scammers."
"You can check Warhammer Military Industries online; the parent company is DYB Technology."
"There's been a lot of news lately. We are entering the military industry and are currently forming an aviation R&D team."
Li Jianguo didn't take it seriously.
Scammers always had a script for everything.
On the third day, a man in a sharp suit intercepted him.
"Hello, Mr. Li. This is my business card and our corporate registration info. Our company would like to invite you to our America headquarters for an inspection. The company will cover all travel expenses."
"You can even bring your family along for the visit. It happens to be a long holiday soon."
Li Jianguo was stunned.
He had seen scammers call and text, but he had never seen one bold enough to show up at his door.
"What... exactly do you do?"
"We build planes." The headhunter smiled and opened a news page on his phone.
On the screen was a report about Warhammer Military Industries announcing its entry into the aviation manufacturing industry.
DYB Technology's financial reports, news about the South America iron ore, and the planning maps for the industrial park—everything was laid out clearly.
Li Jianguo scrolled through a few pages, his heart starting to race.
This seems... not to be a scam?
But he didn't agree immediately.
"I'll think about it."
Over the next few days, Li Jianguo tossed and turned, unable to sleep.
A million-dollar annual salary.
One month's salary in advance.
Covered accommodation and airfare...
It would be a lie to say he wasn't tempted by these conditions.
But as a middle-aged man, he knew all too well that there was no such thing as a free lunch.
What if it was a trap?
What if he went and couldn't come back?
Li Jianguo wanted someone to talk it over with, but he didn't know who to turn to.
His wife couldn't wait for him to jump ship, his colleagues would only be jealous if they found out, and his supervisor would make his life even more miserable if he knew.
Just as he was hesitating, the final straw that broke the camel's back arrived.
The May Day holiday this year was five days long.
The supervisor posted a notice in the group chat: "The holiday duty schedule is set. Everyone, take a look."
Li Jianguo clicked it, and there was his name again.
For over a decade, May Day, National Day, and Spring Festival—he was always the one on duty.
He sent a message to the supervisor: "President Zhang, can I be left off the duty list this time? I have things to handle at home."
The supervisor called him directly.
"Old Li, what do you mean? This is a collective duty arrangement. You can't just say you're not doing it."
"President Zhang, I really do have things to do."
"What things? You're not going traveling anyway. Staying at home is just staying at home."
Li Jianguo suppressed his anger and said, "I have plans."
"What plans? Let's hear them."
"I... I'm going abroad."
There was a two-second silence on the other end, then the supervisor laughed. "Old Li, are you joking with me? You've never even applied for a passport. What 'going abroad'?"
Li Jianguo's face turned beet red.
"I'm not doing this duty shift."
The supervisor's voice turned cold. "Old Li, what kind of attitude is this? Where is your sense of the collective? Is it because you know there's no duty allowance this year that you're slacking off?"
"What kind of mindset is that? It's extremely irresponsible!"
Li Jianguo finally snapped. "Why is it always me? Why doesn't Zhu Peng have to be on duty? I've never seen him work a shift during a long holiday."
The supervisor's voice suddenly spiked. "Little Zhu is going abroad for a trip during the holiday. Is that the same?"
Li Jianguo gripped his phone, his knuckles turning white as he asked angrily, "If Zhu Peng can go abroad, why can't I?"
"Do you have his circumstances? Do you have his vision for the big picture?"
The supervisor's rhetorical question was like a bucket of cold water over Li Jianguo.
He took a deep breath, and his voice actually calmed down.
"President Zhang, I have plans. Whether you approve them or not, I'm going. If you've got the guts, fire me."
The other end went silent for a moment, then came the supervisor's roar: "Li Jianguo! You..."
Li Jianguo hung up and slammed the phone on the desk.
He sat at his desk, his chest heaving violently.
His colleagues in the office all kept their heads down; no one dared to look at him.
Li Jianguo reached into his pocket. Inside was the dialysis bill for his mother he'd received this morning, along with the notice for his child's school fees from the teacher. He crumpled the two pieces of paper in his grip.
Twenty years of youth had been wasted here, and all he got in return was endless suppression and injustice.
Li Jianguo stood up, grabbed his jacket, and pushed the door open to leave.
As he reached the company entrance, the headhunter sent a message: "Engineer Li, have you thought it over? If you're sure about going, we'll book your ticket right now."
Li Jianguo looked back at the door he had walked through for twenty years. The door was the same as ever, but he knew he would never come back.
Then, he replied with two words: "I'm going."